Twice Retired (2 page)

Philip walked backwards towards them
then spun around. He tossed the newspaper into Kenny’s lap. Kenny
read the headline. It meant nothing. Then he read the little box,
up beside the weather forecast and the dentist’s ad. Then the
dateline.

“Holy.” He said. “Somebody’s been
here.”

“Really?” Jake asked, sitting forward
in his basket chair.

“Yeah, really, and it’s not another
bunch of kids, either. It’s an adult. Who else would save
newpapers? Or even read them?”

“Man, I just
knew
we were gonna get caught someday.” Phillip
moaned.

“Plug, we aren’t going to get caught.
Don’t worry about it.”

“We’ve gotta stop coming here. We’ll
have to find somewhere else to…”

“Look, this is our place as much as
anyone else’s.” Jake said. “This is public land, so even if
somebody owns the logs, they don’t own the floor.” He had no idea
about zoning and ownership, but it seemed to calm Philip
down.

“Really?” Philip said.

“Really, Plug.” Jake said. Only after
he settled Philip down did he feel his own fear being wrested from
his innocent youthful heart.

“Come on. Forget your fire, Plug. Let’s
go throw some other heat.”

They retired in a clump to the old shed
that barely still stood about ten yards behind the cabin. They’d
only found the crudely painted red bullseye and the bell nailed in
the middle a couple of weeks ago. Since then, it had been target
practice with a few old baseballs they’d found under the cot in the
cabin.

They’d paced off the space between the
shed and the fringe of the forest, and knew it was substantially
less than 60 feet and 6 inches, the major league standard, but they
actually appreciated that. The space that
was
provided was about 40 feet, and they could
jiggle the shed with thunderous “thwaps” when they really chucked
the ball in there. The bell was hard to hit. Because of the thick
metal bracket, only about an inch of it was exposed. If the bracket
was hit, it would absorb the impact and the bell would only shiver.
The bell had only rung true five times. Three for Kenny and two for
Jake. Philip had still not hit the middle of the target. Maybe he
was born to DH.

They spent a half hour hurling the
balls at the side of the shed. Kenny rang the bell twice, and that
was it. There was no luck today. They retired to the
cabin.

On their respective pieces of
furniture, they lazily whittled away another twenty minutes.
Conversation drifted from school, to baseball, to Brianne- then
back to baseball and back to Brianne. Two at twelve and one at
thirteen, the three kids were lucky. A few years from now the
goings-on in the real world would impact them directly, and there
would be no escape. In the looming world of paycheques and pavement
and glass, stress and depression weren’t only fictitious
conditions. They were a way of life. Right now, the kids still
stomped through life recklessly and with no legitimate concerns
about a future that somehow seemed inconsequential. Except for
Kenny, they passed through their youth in somewhat stable
environments, but Kenny handled his own situation like a true man.
Sooner than they’d expect, they would be purged from the extended
womb of childhood into a life in which they must seek their own
shelter. And pay for the electricity. Adult problems could follow
you anywhere. Even into the woods. But today, like all other
todays, was stripped of any responsibility. They’d each bought
themselves the afternoon from their parents, still keeping the
secret of the cabin among only themselves.

As they recuperated, they considered
going back outside for more batless batting practice. They
postponed it a few more minutes. Philip dazily continued his
narrative of lust for Brianne Templeton, and the others listened
emptily. They each forced the issue of Kathy Morehouse.

“I already
told
you. Kathy Morehouse is a…”

--THWAP --

“What the hell was that?” Jake asked,
his ears perked like a watchdog’s.

--THWAP --

The kids piled in front of the
scratched acrylic window which looked over the clearing at the side
of the cabin. They couldn’t see anybody.

--DING --

“What the…” Each had seen the baseball
whistle out of the trees, but wanted to hear it acknowledged by
someone else before saying anything.

--THWAP --

Another ball hit the side of the shed.
Paint chips flew. Then a man’s voice from the forest.
“Shit!”

“Uh-oh.” Philip said with childlike
terror.

“Let’s book, Kenny. Come on.” Jake was
scared. Kid scared.

“I think that might be a good idea.”
Kenny said with no trademark grin. Slowly, they moved across the
cabin as one mass, and stepped out onto the concrete
stoop.

“Got everything?” Kenny
asked.

“Yeah. Come on, let’s get out of
here.”

In the lead, Kenny took his first step
off the crumbling veranda. Before his other Nike hit the ground, a
voice chirped from beside them. The voice wasn’t angry- at least
not at their presence. Perhaps only at their departure.

“Where you kids going?”

Three stunned head turned and saw him.
A man, maybe in his mid-sixties. Pretty good shape, and maybe a
full head of silver hair, except it was tucked under an Indian’s
cap. He was carrying a thermal cooler bag, the size of a
schoolbag.

“Um…” Jake started to say.

“Answer me one question, and I’ll
decide if you stay or go.” The man said, juggling four baseballs,
but still looking at them. He collected the balls from the air in
front of him. He pointed at Jake. “You I’m not worried about. But
you other two…”

“Yeah?” Phillip gulped
meekly.

“You don’t like the Reds, do
you?”

“No, sir.” Kenny and Phillip answered
together.

“Good.” The man grinned. “Then come in
for lunch.”

The man led them back in and whipped
together an excellent meal, digging further into his cooler bag
then he’d hoped. He’d been planning on spending three days in the
cabin. But he was a gracious host.

“Did you kids see the writing on these
baseballs?” He tossed one to each of the kids, and held one in his
own hand.

“Nope.” Kenny answered. “Didn’t
look.”

“They’re autographed.”

“By who?” They each inspected their
ball. They saw the scribbles under the scuff marks, but the
signature were illegible.

“One of them is from Vic Wertz, another
one from Bob Feller. And Ray Fosse… look him up. And one of from a
young Rookie on the Mets. Nolan Ryan.”

“Shut up… really?” Phillip said with
two tones.

“Yeah, really.” The man replied. He
heaped the foam plates into a garbage bag and sat down on Philip’s
sofa. “Meant something to me once, but now they’re only good for
the same thing you guys were using them for.”

“Is that one signed?” Philip
asked.

“Not by anyone you’d know.” He answered
softly.

“How come we couldn’t see you out
there?” Kenny asked.

“The mound is twenty feet into the
forest. Took me a week and a half to clear the brush and trim the
branches that hung down in front of the arc. Why? Where were you
guys throwing from?”

“From right outside the trees. I guess
we never looked too close.” Kenny said. “Besides, we can’t hit the
bell from forty feet- let alone sixty.”

“Bull. Come on.” The older man darted
out of the cabin with the spry youthfulness of a man half his age.
He led them into a now noticeable path through the brush. They
gathered around an almost perfectly square stone set into the
earth. The man waved them back. He pointed Jake back to the shed.
“Shag.”

He then began pelting the shed with the
four baseballs. After heating up for about fifteen or twenty
pitches, he began consistently nailing the bell at least two throws
out of three. The kids stood back in awe. He then offered Kenny the
balls, and Kenny couldn’t even reach the target, the outer circle
of which was painted with a four foot diameter. Within three
pitches, the man identified the mechanical problems with the
youngster’s action. A few quick tips, a few more practice pitches,
and Kenny was hitting the target every time. He hurled the baseball
with unrecognizable power. He rang the bell twice in only eight
pitches.

Philip’s turn was a little less
prosperous. He barely reached the base of the wood shed after the
balls rolled. The balls landed with dim thuds in the autumn
hardened soil. As Jake returned the balls, he grew more anxious for
his turn. If Kenny could hit the bell, then
he
could hit the bell. His turn came soon enough,
and he nailed the bell but once. He savored another victory,
though. The man had barely said a word to him. The extra twenty
feet of distance seemed to mean nothing in terms of his power and
endurance.

They returned to the cabin, wherein the
man only grabbed some newspapers from the cupboard. They retired
outside, where he lit the tiny wooden teepee aflame. Nobody except
the silently giggling Phillip knew what lie in a thick puddle under
the kindling.

“How come you know so much about
pitching, mister.” Jake asked. “We could never imagine throwing
them like that.”

“It’s not about knowing, guys. It’s
about wanting it.” He seemed somber for a moment, then looked like
the wise man he was supposed to be. “Nolan Ryan once said ‘One of
the beautiful things about baseball is that every once in a while
you come into a situation where you want to, and where you have to,
reach down and prove something.’ That’s all you kids did out there.
Proved it to me, to each other… and to yourselves. You just needed
a little push.”

“Yeah, but you could see what we needed
to do it.” Jake said. “How come?”

“Ah, I used to play a little.” The man
replied. “And my name is Ron.”

There were no handshakes, but the
introductions rounded the firepit. The kids didn’t ask for a second
name, even though the man visibly
needed
one of them to ask. Kenny saw this
internal struggle. The man wanted something- either that or he was
about to fart, Kenny thought to himself.

“Let’s go inside.” Philip said. They
filed one-by-one back into the cabin.

“So,” Kenny began obtrusively as he sat
on a stool. “who did you play for?”

“Don’t matter. My name won’t ring any
bells like your reborn fastball.” The old man said. “But maybe
you’ve heard of my boy. Gene Webster.”

“Gene Webster?” Philip jumped off the
sofa like he’d just been plugged in. He bounced around the tiny
cabin like a chubby rubber ball. “Your kid is Gene Webster. Holy
sweet Jesus, I met him once when I was a kid and he signed
my…”

“Wow, mister. How’s it feel to have a
son in the hall of fame?” Kenny asked, intriguingly stuck to the
man now.

The man, who half a moment ago had lit
up when mentioning his son’s name, now seemed demoralized. “I
figured nobody your age would know him that well. He was on the
ballot for five years. With Ryan and Yount and Brett going in, I
figured he was a throw-in to your generation.”

“Damn, mister, we may be young but we
grew up with baseball. You think we can’t appreciate a guy who
played, I mean really
played?
”
Kenny said. “How many of his hits wouldn’t have been hits if he
hadn’t hustled like that. Take away forty or fifty over his career
and he didn’t hit for a three hundred average. Man, he was
awesome.”

“He was pretty good.” Ron nodded. The
excitement was strictly gone. These kids had thrown him junk and
now he was locked into a horrifying conversation.

“You must have bawled at the induction
ceremony.” Jake said. There was no reply. “You know, to see your
kid up there.”

“I didn’t make it.” Ron replied
softly.

“What? What do you mean you
didn’t
make it
?” Phillip
asked, bulging with youthful semi-rage.

Kenny and Jake saw the look on the
man’s face. He set himself back into a defensive stare and eyed
Philip. “You don’t know, kid. You just don’t know. I
do.”

“Don’t know what?” Philip was sorry
now, but he’d made no concerted effort to pluck a string in this
man’s psyche. It just kind of happened.

“Can it, Plug.” Kenny
ordered.

Webster looked at Kenny. “What did you
call him?”

“Plug. It’s his nickname. Always has
been. Even his mom calls him that.”

“Did anybody ever ask him how he feels
about it?” The man looked at Philip. “Has your mom ever asked
you?”

Philip shrugged. Nobody ever had. He’d
just assumed the moniker like he might accept a sweater from his
grandma. It might not have fit and it might have been ugly, but
he’d worn it ever since.